


Hope from Every Small Disaster

by remiges



Series: Slow Pony Home [3]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Erectile Dysfunction, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rope Bondage, Situational Dubious Consent, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-13 13:07:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15365343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remiges/pseuds/remiges
Summary: Claude doesn't need the gods to help him play good hockey. He does that all on his own.Or: Five times Claude didn't have sex in the winner's room and one time he did.





	Hope from Every Small Disaster

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [Painting by Chagall](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3PmXpT6ejE4) by The Weepies.
> 
> Thanks to chibinecco for helping me with some of the pairings, and to yeswayappianway for generally being the best (and specifically for talking things through with me). <3
> 
> **For additional information regarding consent issues and the rape/non-con elements tag, please see the endnotes.**

**1: October 16, 2009**

Claude still gets nervous when he's picked as tribute, but it's nothing like what it was last year. He thinks the feeling will go away eventually, but standing outside the winner's room, steeling himself to go in, he can't say for certain.

Iginla is over by the idol when Claude finally pushes open the door, and he turns to smile and nod at him. "Hey, come sit down. You're going to want to take your robe off for this, okay?" he says, like Claude could have somehow made it through his rookie year without figuring out how this works. He'd had a mandated spotter then, but it's not like he's forgotten everything between the end of the season and now.

Then again, Claude thinks as he shrugs out of his robe and turns to actually look at the bed, maybe he doesn't know what he's doing. There is nothing, absolutely _nothing_ , good that can come from a plastic sheet spread out on top of the sheets.

He hears the flick of a lighter and turns to find Iginla holding a candle he must have gotten from the idol, judging from the drips of wax, and Claude suddenly feels very young and horribly exposed.

Iginla must see some of that in his face, or maybe he just hears Claude's breath leave him in a rush, because he pauses in the middle of crossing the room.

"Hey, you okay?" he asks, even though Claude is very much not okay. He's holding his robe in a ball in front of himself, and he has no idea what Iginla is going to do with an open flame but he wants no part of it.

"I—" he starts, swallows. His throat clicks, loud in the silence.

Iginla holds up a hand and walks the rest of the way over to the bed, giving Claude a wide berth. He sets the candle down on the bedside table.

"I'm sorry, I got ahead of myself," he says, sitting on the edge of the bed. The plastic crinkles. "The beginning of the season always throws me a bit, I didn't mean to startle you."

Startle is a pretty charitable word, Claude thinks, finally gathering the courage to sit down next to him. He keeps his robe in his lap, even though he feels a little silly doing so.

"Have you ever tried wax play before?" Iginla asks gently, though it must be apparent from Claude's reaction that he hasn't. He can feel heat prickling up his face. Of course Iginla wasn't going to start... what, _burning_ him? God.

He shakes his head when it becomes apparent that Iginla isn't going to take his silence as a no.

"Alright, that's what I was going to see about before I got ahead of myself. Are you allergic to nuts or soy?"

"No," Claude tells him, his voice coming out remarkably even. He doesn't think about the fact that he could have lied until the word is already out of his mouth, and by then it's too late.

Iginla keeps talking, but Claude isn't really listening. He should be, he knows, but his mind keeps saying things like _third-degree burns_ and _fire_ , and it's not helping his concentration. He tunes back in when Iginla says, "It hurts more for some people than others, which is why we're going to test it on your arm first, alright? See if you're still good or if you have a reaction or anything."

Claude nods, because it seems like the thing to do.

"Here, hold out your hand."

"Okay," Claude says, but he can't... he can't move. He wills himself to pick up his arm and turn it over to Iginla, but it's as if there's a disconnect between his brain and his body. He stares at his arm, like maybe if he looks at it long enough it'll do what he wants.

It doesn't.

"Okay," Iginla says after a minute where Claude still can't manage to unfreeze. He picks up Claude's hand, and Claude doesn't resist—not when Iginla pulls it away from his body, or when he turns it so the soft skin of his wrist is bared, or when he wraps Claude's fingers around the base of the candle.

Claude blinks. He stares at the candle he's holding for a long moment, like this is suddenly going to start making sense, then looks at Iginla.

"With wax play, you want to make sure you're holding the candle high enough that you're not going to burn someone," Iginla says as he stands and shrugs out of his robe, mindful of the flame, then sits back down. He props himself up with a couple of pillows, then arranges the robe over his junk. "You want to be careful of what's above you so you don't catch anything on fire, and you never want to drop the candle. There's a fire extinguisher on the ground, but we shouldn't need it." Claude had noticed that, but he'd just thought it was a regular part of the room.

"You want me to..." Claude trails off. He looks over at the idol in its recessed nook, like it can tell him what's going on, but the space is all shadows.

"I'll walk you through it, okay?" Iginla says. He has a very calm face. Claude can almost believe this is what he was going to do the whole time.

"I—okay." Claude can do this. He can.

"Normally you want to test the wax on yourself first, make sure you know how hot it's going to be since it can vary from candle to candle," Iginla explains. "I've already used this one, though, so you can skip that part."

Claude looks at Iginla, really looks at him. He's a big guy, strong. If he'd wanted to, he could have put Claude on that bed with its plastic sheet to catch any drips, and he could have made him stay there. He could have poured wax until the candle burned down.

"How high?" Claude asks. "To test it."

Iginla looks almost approving, and he sits up and positions the candle at whatever the appropriate height is. He wraps a hand around Claude's and give him a questioning look, and Claude nods. His hands are shaking, but Iginla's aren't, and he figures he can let him do this part.

The wax doesn't hurt as much as Claude had been expecting, but it's still hot. He jerks when the first drops hit, but the bite of pain fades as it cools.

"Good?" Iginla asks, and Claude nods. He can almost imagine it now, what that would have felt like across his chest or back or stomach, wherever Iginla had been going to pour it. He could have taken it, now that it's not an unknown. If he'd held out his hand when Iginla had asked the first time, Claude thinks that's what would have ended up happening.

Claude shakes the thought away and focuses on Iginla's bared thighs instead. He's got scars, Claude realizes, little white ones like he'd done this with someone inexperienced, or maybe it was an accident. Either way, Claude doesn't want to be responsible for adding more, so he makes sure to start a little higher than Iginla tells him to. His thighs tense when the first drops hit, and Claude looks up to check his reaction, but Iginla motions him to continue.

"You can go lower," he says. "Just keep it above the knee, wax is a pain to get out of hair." Claude had noticed he shaves his thighs. He guesses that's why.

Iginla is as good as his word when he'd said he would walk Claude through it. He tells him where, how high, how much, and Claude finds he likes watching the wax fall, likes the way it decorates his skin. Claude could do without the pain part, but this isn't happening to him so he's not going to complain.

"Do you always do it like that?" he asks afterward when Iginla has called a halt and is scraping the wax off of himself. He'd already done the spot on Claude's arm. "Not the wax. The—we didn't have sex." The adrenaline comedown must be hitting harder than he'd thought, because otherwise Claude doesn't think he'd be asking.

"I usually don't, not when it's my choice," Iginla says, shrugging. He twists his wedding ring around his finger, a spin of gold that Claude can't tear his eyes away from for a long moment. "It's traditional, though. An old tradition, but that's enough."

He puts his robe back on and passes Claude a gatorade that Claude doesn't know if he deserves. He's pretty sure Iginla did all of the work here, but he drinks it anyway.

They sit together until Claude drains the bottle, and then Iginla pushes off from the bed, picks up the still lit candle from the bedside table, and walks the length of the room to the nook with the Flames' idol. He pours some of the wax into a divot, then sets the candle there and holds it until the wax hardens. When he steps back the flame throws shadows that twist around the idol until it almost seems to move, and Claude finally gets it, why there's no lighting. Iginla says something, quiet enough that Claude can't hear, and then he cups a hand around the flame and blows it out. The smoke twists its way toward the ceiling in a hypnotizing wave that Claude can't help but watch.

Iginla claps one hand to Claude's shoulder as he turns to leave. "Good job tonight," he says, holding Claude's gaze. He sounds sincere, not a trace of mockery in his tone. Claude doesn't know if he's talking about the game or about the winner's room, so he just nods. Iginla nods back and leaves, and then it's just Claude and the idol and the still dissipating trail of smoke.

The thing is, Claude's family went to church when he was little. The ceilings had been low and sheltering, and the stained glass transoms above the doors turned the carpet different colors when it was bright out, slid across his palms in waves. He'd never been any good at listening to the sermons, which were boring and too long, but he'd liked the statues—the roses and the thorns and the blood. The saints, sacrificing their bodies to their deities.

Here it's different. The idols are supposed to be sacred, but they hold all of the ceremony and none of the weight. Lord Stanley's cup is the altar they worship at, but Claude doesn't think there's anything up there listening, not for these idols. Not for _any_ idol, if he's being honest with himself.

Still, he gets up and makes his way over there, drawn by something he doesn't have words for.

The shadows are back, curled around the idol like it's hiding—from what or who, he doesn't know. It doesn't look that impressive up close—smooth black rock, maybe volcanic or something. Claude's never been good at identifying that kind of thing.

Standing there, he doesn't talk to it or leave a sacrifice or think about how he wants to improve his game. The candle is still upright, and he wonders about that instead, wonders who's going to come in later and clean it up. He thinks he might have gotten wax on the floor, and he wants to know how easy it is to get out, or if the Flames' cleaning staff are just paid really well to deal with that sort of thing. There's a faint hint of bleach and lingering paint fumes, like they'd repainted the room for the beginning of the season, but no incense or sulfur. No divine power. No hum of electricity in the air.

The idol sits in its cubby, as inanimate as any other hunk of rock, and Claude doesn't feel anything when he turns his back on it to leave.

 

**2: February 5, 2011**

Seguin is smirking when he comes through the door, looking wholly centered in his body, and Claude has no idea how he does that. He flashes open his robe for a glimpse of thigh before dropping it on the floor, then stands there with his hands on his hips like he knows exactly what he looks like. He's not hard yet, but Claude hadn't expected him to be.

"Where do you want me?" Seguin asks. It sounds flirty, more than anything.

Claude spreads his legs and grins. "Where do you think?"

Seguin comes over easily, situating himself between Claude's thighs and thumbing his bottom lip. It's a little forward, but Claude can't find it in himself to mind.

"Kissing okay?" Seguin asks, like they're in _Pretty Woman_ or something, and Claude rolls his eyes and drags him in by the back of his neck.

Most winner's room encounters don't go like this, but Claude doesn't know why they can't. Seguin's beard is a little rough against his own, but he tastes like mint and isn't shy. He lets Claude's tongue in without any coaxing, and the kiss is hot and wet and perfect. When he undoes the tie on Claude's robe and spreads the halves out, Claude runs his hands down Seguin's back to feel the pull of his muscles. Seguin doesn't break the kiss, but he gets a little distracted with the multitasking, so Claude bites his lip to keep his focus.

They make out for a while, Seguin's hard-on rubbing against the cut of Claude's hip, and then Seguin's hand snakes down and wraps around his traitorously soft dick before Claude can stop him.

"Hey," Seguin says, stilling. "Are you into this, man? We can do something else."

Claude pushes down the heat he can feel start across his face. "No, it's fine. Just give me a couple more minutes."

Seguin raises an eyebrow, but he shrugs and doesn't resist when Claude pulls him in again. They make out for a while longer, and Seguin eventually turns to pressing kisses along his jaw, down his throat, lower, as the want shivers up Claude's spine. When Seguin raises his head from one of Claude's nipples, the color in his cheeks is high and his eyes are bright and he's exactly Claude's type.

And Claude definitely can't get it up.

"Sorry," he sighs, pushing him back. He looks over Seguin's shoulder instead of at his face, focusing on the wall as he tries to shove down his embarrassment. It's not like this hasn't ever happened to him before, but never in the winner's room. Never when it's him as victor.

"Hey, no. You want me to suck you?" Seguin asks, and to his credit he doesn't sound like it would be a chore. "You can close your eyes, imagine whoever you want." That's not the problem, and Claude knows without even trying that it's not going to work.

"It's just not happening today, sorry," he tells him.

Seguin sits back on his heels, hard dick bobbing in front of him like a reminder of what Claude is missing. "I mean, it happens to a lot of guys," he tries, but Claude waves him off. "Alright. If you do something else, can you just watch the knee?"

Claude has no idea what he's talking about.

"You know." Seguin makes a motion like he's slapping something, then turns around and helpfully wiggles his ass in Claude's face. "Like I said, just watch the knee, everything else is fair game."

Claude's been spanked before. He hadn't liked it—not the position he'd been in, or the sound it made, or the blinding _humiliation_ of it all. He gets that not everyone feels the same way, but he can't see himself ever being that blasé in offering it up. And anyway, he'd wanted to fuck Seguin, not do this.

"It's fine," he says. "We can just be done."

For the first time, Seguin looks fazed. "No, like, what do you want me to do?" he asks again, as if Claude might have misunderstood the question. "I could rim you? Or if you don't want to hurt your hand with spanking, I think we could wrangle up a paddle from somewhere? Like I said, anything but the knee. And no choking," he adds as an afterthought.

Claude considers and discards a number of possible responses, and finally settles on, "You can jerk off if you want?" He doesn't know why anyone would stick around longer than they had to in the winner's room. He certainly wouldn't.

Seguin still looks unsure, though, and the glance he shoots at the idol finally clues Claude in to what's happening—he must not think what he's done so far has been enough of a sacrifice.

Claude may not believe, but he's not going to take this away from someone who does. "Come on," he says, putting more enthusiasm in his voice this time. He trails his fingers along the curve of Seguin's bicep, over his ink. When he reaches his hand he guides it down to Seguin's dick, which is still mostly hard. "Show me what you've got."

That seems to set them on the right path again, and Seguin dimples at him before bringing his hand up to lick. "You know, if you want a show I can give you one."

"Yeah?" Claude says, pressing Seguin's knee down to the mattress so he has a better view. Seguin flexes for him. "Prove it."

And it's... it's not perfect. Perfect would have been not needing to leave a sacrifice, or being able to get it up, or not having a winner's room in the first place. But as Seguin comes over his abs and moans a little too loud to be entirely real, it's close enough.

 

**3: April 8, 2012**

The spotter has to call it now, Claude thinks as Powell lays another solid stripe on Claude's ass with his cane. It burns, this deep-seated thing clawing its way across his skin, licking at him with a white-hot tongue. He's had painplay feel good before, but this... this doesn't.

He's not sure it's even painplay, actually. Just pain, period.

Claude shifts on the bed in an involuntary urge to get away, one he's never been able to completely squash, and flinches in anticipation of the next blow. If he had his hands free, he could do... something. Anything. But that had been the first thing Powell had done after Claude stripped: he'd anchored Claude's hands to the frame of the bed with the ties to their robes, and even though Claude is sweating, eyes stinging from the salt, he can't get free.

Powell hits him again, and the edges of Claude's vision briefly gray out. Someone should do something, he thinks when he can think around the pain again, but nobody is.

Claude had gotten a spotter when he'd connected Powell with the guy Shelley had fought at the end of the second period. And enforcer doesn't mean sadist, doesn't mean dangerous, but AHL players who get called up to the big leagues for just a game or two are always dicey, and when Claude has gut feelings he tends to listen to them.

He's just wishing right now he'd been wrong.

The spotter hadn't raised a hand when Powell brought out a cane, and weren't spotters supposed to dial down that kind of thing? Claude tries to catch his gaze, but the way his head is pressed into the pillow means he can just catch the edge of the spotter's red robes and the polished toe of a boot. He could pick his head up, crane around behind him, but the thought of doing so makes his stomach turn. He doesn't think he's bleeding, doesn't think the spotter would let it go that far, but he doesn't want to find out for sure if he is.

Claude is so distracted by the pain echoing through him that Powell's hands on his wrist are enough to make his startle. He jerks back—or, tries to jerk back—something in his mind screaming not his wrists, not his _wrists_ , but Powell just slips the edge of the safety scissors under the tie.

Claude sucks in a breath, closes his eyes, and tries to control his face as the relief washes through him. It's done. Fuck, it's finally done. He doesn't fight when Powell tugs on his shoulder until Claude rolls onto his back, one hand still tied. The feeling of the sheets against the raw skin of his ass momentarily takes his breath away, and he blames that on why he doesn't clue in to what's happening. By the time he realizes Powell is tying his one unbound hand back to the bed frame, it's too late to fight.

"What—" he starts, tugging against the new restraint. "What are you..." But he knows what Powell is doing, knows even before Powell pushes his thighs apart and reaches for the lube that's sitting on the bedside table.

Powell doesn't say anything—hasn't said anything at all in the winner's room—and Claude shuts his mouth on the end of his question. Powell isn't looking at him, and the spotter isn't either, and Claude doesn't know what he'd say even if he could get the words out.

He tries to get back to the place he'd been before, but his headspace is all messed up. It feels like he's been pulled forcibly back into his body, which isn't where he wants to be, and even trying to regulate his breathing isn't helping. He'd thought they were done, that _he_ was done, that this whole thing was going to be over. He could put his robe back on and take a shower and wash all of this off of him, and then he'd be able to go back to his hotel room and _forget_ about this, put it alongside all the other memories of winner's rooms. He'd thought he was _done_.

Powell opens him up until he's taking three fingers while Claude pants at the ceiling, blinking the afterimages from the light fixture away from his vision. The stretch is just this side of too painful, but Powell is oddly careful. Claude doesn't know why, considering the state of his ass and the way Powell had grabbed his arm to keep him still earlier. Maybe he doesn't like blood, Claude thinks hazily. Claude doesn't either.

When Powell pulls his fingers out, Claude thinks he's going for a condom, but he doesn't. Instead, he dips his head towards Claude's dick like he's going to try sucking it. If he wants him hard for this he's shit out of luck, but Powell doesn't go for a blowjob. Instead, he presses a sucking kiss to the inside of his thigh, then another. The heat and suction would feel good any other time, but Claude just wants Powell to get this over with. Oblivious to Claude's thoughts, Powell methodically works his way up. When he reaches Claude's hip, he bites down right where the bone is, hard.

Claude yells.

He kicks out instinctively and feels his foot connect with something—Powell's ribs, it feels like. The next thing he knows, one ear is ringing and the side of his face is tingling. There's a smear of what must be lube on his cheek from where Powell had hit him. Claude tastes blood, swallows hard.

The spotter is still standing against the wall, robe stark against the white paint, and he's made no move toward the bed. He doesn't even have his mouth open to say something. Claude twists his hands against the unforgiving fabric Powell had tied them in, and for the first time feels truly afraid.

Powell crawls further up the bed, and Claude bares his teeth at him, adrenaline spiking in a nauseating wave. Powell's dick nudges against the skin behind Claude's balls, and Claude finds he can't look him in the eye.

Finally, finally, the spotter shows a little life. He pushes away from the wall and holds up a hand like he's conducting traffic at a school crossing. "Stop," he says, loud enough that Claude can hear him over the way his breathing is rattling around his head, but Powell is already between his legs. If he wanted to keep going, Claude doesn't think the spotter could stop him.

But Powell stops. His shadow hangs over Claude for a long moment, but he stops.

"You're done," the spotter says, and then Powell is getting out from between Claude's legs and off the bed. He stands in the middle of the room looking lost for a minute, like he has a _right_ to look lost, while the spotter crosses the room and picks up the safety scissors from the bedside table. Then he shrugs on his robe in a jerky motion and walks out. Some perverse part of Claude had wanted to look down, see if he'd still been hard, but the spotter had blocked his view.

"What the fuck was that," Claude says as the metal touches his overheated skin. He has to start twice before he can get the words out, and even then his voice cracks.

"Sex is the traditional sacrifice, but violence can also count." The spotter looks unruffled, like nothing in the room could ever touch him. "It's not common, but it does happen," he continues as he cuts his other hand loose.

Claude's broken the skin somehow, the fabric abrading his wrists when he'd been struggling. His hands are shaking, and he gingerly gets up and busies himself with putting on his robe to disguise it.

"Then why did you stop him, if violence is so," Claude feels his face twist, "acceptable?"

"Condoms are required," the spotter tells him as Claude holds his robe closed. "I know that was difficult, and it's hard to know where the line is sometimes—" What line? Claude thinks. What fucking line? "—but you did well."

Claude stares at him. He did well. Powell doing him bare is the line in the sand, and he did _well_. The bite mark on his hip is still throbbing, and his spotter, who is supposed to put him first, whose job it is to make sure tributes don't come to harm, is basing his measurement of wellbeing on what the gods—the _gods_ —want and require.

Claude realizes he's not shaking because of the adrenaline drop or fear, but rage. He grinds his teeth, tastes blood.

"Get out."

"Now Claude," the spotter starts, like he has any right to use Claude's name, and Claude doesn't wait around to hear what he's going to say. When he leaves, the spotter makes no attempt to stop him.

Claude ducks into the changing room just long enough to fumble his clothes back on, jam his feet into his shoes and tuck the laces down inside, and then he's out again. He doesn't shower, doesn't want to look at the marks on his body. Doesn't want to _be_ in his body right now.

He imagines what it would feel like, destroying the idol. It's stone, so he wouldn't be able to tear it apart with his hands, but he could throw it, dent the wall, take out the overhead light in a spray of glass. The bedside table is wood, but the frame of the bed is metal. He could put the idol on the floor, pick up the end of the bed and bring a leg down on it, again and again and again, until it was all just rock and dust. Until whatever belief kept the whole lie together crumbled apart.

He knows what would happen after that. Problem. That's what his label would be. Problem player.

Still, it might almost be worth it.

Claude's feet carry him on autopilot to his car, and then he fumbles his keys getting them out of his pocket. He has to unlock the door manually or risk hitting the panic button, and when he finally gets inside he sits and seethes.

The winner's room is antiquated, obscene. He doesn't know why the league even has one, not now, not after all of these years. Not when some of the players don't believe and the spotters are corrupt and the whole system is garbage, and he just... he can't think about this. He can't fucking think about this. Claude jams the key in the ignition, turns it with prejudice, and peels out of the lot.

He drives until he reaches downtown, until he finds a suitable place, until his _fucking_ hands stop shaking. The first club he hits is too bright, too clean, and he leaves without finishing his drink. The next one is more what he's looking for—dingy and anonymous and _easy_. When a twink with dark skin and warm hands sidles up to him on the dance floor, Claude follows him to the bathroom without hesitation.

The walls are covered in graffiti and old flyers, and Claude fucks him in the first stall, using a condom he'd gotten from the dispenser by the sink. The guy has bleached hair and nipple rings that Claude can feel through the sheer material of his shirt, and his breathy moans sound fake bouncing off the walls. It feels like it takes forever to come, Claude's body screaming at him every time he moves, but he manages it eventually.

"Hey," he says after he's thrown away the condom and zipped up. They hadn't undressed any further than that. "Do you have any friends?"

The guy—fuck, Claude hadn't asked his name—raises a heavily plucked eyebrow. "Yeah, I might. Why, you want to go again? Thought you'd be done."

Claude goes to run a hand through his hair and gets caught on his reflection in the mirror above the skin, the scraped-raw skin revealed where his sleeve has ridden up. He has to turn away before he can answer, but his voice comes out steady.

"No," Claude tells him. "No, I'm not done yet."

 

**4: March 16, 2014**

Claude usually doesn't volunteer to be considered for tribute more than his mandated number of times, not unless someone's up who he cares about or who's a particularly good fuck. Other than that, he's content to let the chips fall where they will. He doesn't need the gods to help him play good hockey. He does that all on his own.

Still, he's usually up for volunteering when they play the Pens.

The Flyers win in a grind, and Claude gets the tap on his arm later that tells him it's his turn to pick a tribute. Usually he would go with Crosby, but their last time had been a little... weird. Not as rough as they usually went, and Claude doesn't know what to do with that so he just decides not to deal with it altogether.

"Fleury," he tells the priest, ignoring the raised eyebrows from a couple of players within hearing distance. "I want Fleury." Goalies aren't usually chosen except by other goalies, but there's no rule against it. And if it has the added bonus of getting under Crosby's skin, well. Claude can't say it's a downside.

The Pens' room is on the small end, but Claude likes those better, doesn't feel as exposed when he goes as tribute. The walls are white, and the comforter too, which he strips before sitting down. He doesn't have to look in the bedside table to know it's stocked with the usual assortment of condoms and lube, but he isn't planning on using any today.

Claude's only walked into a winner's room to find his tribute waiting for him a couple of times in his career, and this isn't one of them. He doesn't know if tributes showing up last is due to the speed of the person who has to relay the choice, or tributes trying to prepare ahead of time, or what. Still, he always likes this part the most—the empty room, the bed with its clean linens, the quiet. It's kind of boring, but he likes boring when it comes to being in the winner's room.

It doesn't take long before Fleury comes in, the length of his legs highlighted by his robe. He looks askance at the comforter on the floor, but doesn't comment.

"Feeling adventurous today?" he asks, closing the door behind him. "Not telling you how to live your life, but picking goalies might be the wrong way to rile someone up."

"I'm not riling anyone up," Claude says.

The look Fleury gives him says he knows Claude chose him just to piss Crosby off. Which he did, but only because Crosby thinks he's got him pinned down or something.

"I'm not," Claude protests, and he isn't, not like that. He's had a couple of revenge fucks in his day, whether from picking the wrong person or taking on-ice rivalry into the winner's room. He's not looking for another go-around.

"Whatever you say," Fleury says, sitting down next to him. He immediately reaches for the tie on Claude's robe, but Claude bats his hand away.

"I don't care about that," he tells him. "My back is tight. Do something about that, will you?"

Claude has learned from his time with Seguin. Not everyone in the league thinks there needs to be a sacrifice of some kind, but the vast majority do. It's easier to have something for them to give that Claude can claim as a tribute, rather than leave nothing in the room. He isn't a saint, and it's not about the possibility of STDs—players are tested so often that he's not really worried about catching something. He just can't make himself want sex when he doesn't.

Fleury looks at him for a long minute, and Claude tries to read his expression but he has no idea what he's thinking. He's never actually had anyone demand sex as a tribute, so he's pretty sure that's not what's going to happen here, but it's always a possibility.

Now that he's thinking about it, it might have been easier to just pick Crosby.

"I guess it's true what they say about you, then," Fleury says after what feels like an eternity. He quirks a smile, and Claude can't tell if it's real or mocking or what, so he doesn't even try. Instead, he stands and loosens the tie on his robe, turning away as he does. It's nothing Fleury hasn't seen before, and it's not like Claude is body-shy, but there's no need to wave his junk in Fleury's face.

When Claude climbs on the bed, Fleury stands to give him room. Claude pulls the sheet up around his waist and drags a pillow closer, and tries not to think about Fleury staring at him. Either he's going to make this into something or he isn't, and Claude refuses to turn around and look. Finally he hears the sound of a drawer sliding open and the snap of a cap, and his shoulders start to untense.

"Hope you like regular lube," Fleury says. Claude feels the mattress dip under his weight. "These assholes never shell out for the flavored kinds."

That startles a laugh out of Claude, and he stretches his arms out and finally relaxes the rest of the way.

"Is it okay if I sit on you?" Fleury asks.

Claude waves a hand. "You've had your dick up my ass before, in case you've forgotten. I don't care."

"Yeah," Fleury says, still not moving, "but that was my show. And years ago."

Claude shrugs. "I said it was fine, do whatever."

Fleury doesn't ask again, and the sheets rustle as he straddles him. His bony knees press into his ribs, and he's heavy on Claude's ass. He's still wearing his robe—Claude can feel the end of a tie trailing against his skin, soft and a little ticklish.

"My wife says I give pretty good massages, but tell me if anything feels uncomfortable. Here, put your arms at your sides," Fleury instructs.

Claude does. He's got his mouth open to tell him to get on with it, but then Fleury touches him and Claude sucks in a breath.

Fleury's hands are warm and slick from the lube, and that's probably going to turn tacky later but Claude doesn't care. Fleury's got the heels of his palms pressed against either side of the top of his spine, and he drags them down in a long glide that makes the back of Claude's neck tingle. It's a bit of a turn-on, but he's not changing things up when he already told Fleury he didn't want sex. Anyway, he's only a little hard.

Fleury keeps his hands away from where Claude has the sheet draped, and after a while he shifts to leverage more of his weight into the massage. "So, as long as we're breaking the rules, you want to tell me what's going on with you and Sid?" he asks.

"There's nothing going on." Claude grunts as Fleury digs in to a particularly stubborn knot and kicks his foot into the mattress. Fuck, Fleury's got bony fingers.

"Don't think I haven't noticed how often you two end up together," Fleury says, easing off before Claude has to tell him to.

"What can I say, the gods work in mysterious ways." The pillow that Claude's got his face pressed into smells like lilac detergent and bleach. He turns his head more to the side so he can breathe better.

"Sure," Fleury says, dry. "Let's go with that."

He works Claude over, settling into a rhythm that has Claude feeling like he's sinking into the mattress. The lube starts drying out after a while like he'd thought, but Fleury's hands are strong and competent, and Claude finds he doesn't really care. It's easy, in the moment, to just close his eyes and drift.

Claude wakes to find his robe tucked around him, and for a disorienting minute he doesn't know where he is or who he's with. Nobody, as it turns out when he sits up and looks around. Fleury must have left after he'd fallen asleep. He runs a finger over the sleeve of the robe he'd dislodged, and realizes he has no idea what any of this means.

Claude takes a shower instead of thinking about it, jerks off under the spray to the sense memory of Fleury's hands on him while the warm water relaxes his muscles even further. He's feeling pretty good when he dries off and starts getting dressed, but when he goes to grab his shoes he comes up short. The laces are tangled together in a giant knot, about the size of a golf ball. A knot that hadn't been there the last time Claude had seen them.

"Fleury," he mutters. The changing rooms for the victor and tribute are separate here, but there's really nothing stopping someone from coming in. If those weren't Claude's shoes, he could almost admire the artistry of it.

He spends a couple of minutes trying to get the knots undone, but there are a lot of them and Claude doesn't feel like sitting around. He walks out to his car barefoot, the concrete freezing against his soles, something between admiration and ruefulness coursing through him. He guesses that's better than a revenge fuck for picking a goalie, but Crosby's still going to be getting an earful the next time Claude picks him.

 

**5: December 31, 2014**

"Still good?" Danny asks, tucking a finger under the chest harness he's making, and Claude nods. They've both still got their base layers on, which isn't strictly regulation, but Claude's never gotten the deal with the robes.

Danny's hands are confident as he turns him around to face him, and he pulls the rope through without whacking Claude in the face with the loose ends. It's soothing, in a way, to not have to think about anything. He doesn't have to make the sex good or worry about what other people are going to want from him. He just has to stand here and let Danny work, safe in the knowledge that he's not going to make him uncomfortable.

"Okay, on the bed," Danny says eventually, and Claude goes.

Danny likes hogties for some reason, or at least modified ones, so Claude lies on his stomach while Danny gets out his other length of rope. He ties Claude's ankles together, leaving enough slack that he shouldn't have any problems with his circulation. Claude's never had pins and needles, but it's not like he does this a lot.

"Ready?" Danny asks, pushing Claude's feet up toward the back of his head.

"Yeah." He bends his knees and tucks his arms under his chest. Danny always leaves his hands free. He's good like that.

Danny threads the rope from the ankle tie through the back of the chest harness and makes sure the position he's got Claude in is okay. He could go a little tighter, but it's just as good like this. When he's got the final knot tied, Claude twists around a little but doesn't get very far. He doesn't feel trapped like this, though, not with Danny.

"Doing okay? Need anything?" Danny asks, and Claude tries not to think about the time they'd done this and he'd suddenly realized he needed to use the bathroom. Danny had gotten him free quick enough they he hadn't needed to resort to the safety scissors, but still.

Claude shakes his head now, then changes his mind. "Actually, can you get me a pillow? A thin one."

Danny does, maneuvering it in place with Claude's help, then settles next to him. "I'm setting a timer, okay? Let me know if you need untied before then."

Claude never does, but it's nice to be asked.

Danny touches his feet a couple of times during the wait—checking their temperature, he'd told him before—and Claude flexes his toes when asked, but other than that they don't do much. It's comforting, in a slightly boring way. If not for the overhead light, Claude thinks he could fall asleep like this.

"Ready to get untied?" Danny asks, voice low, after a liquid stretch of time later. Danny never gets hard from this, and Claude doesn't really know why he does it, but it's enough that he can help.

"In a minute," Claude tells him. The words feel like they're coming from a distance, funneling out through his mouth before they've finished leaving his head.

Danny hums neutrally, but he gives him his minute.

When Danny undoes the tie on his ankles, Claude stretches his legs out and then rolls over and sits up. Danny presses against him when he starts undoing the chest harness, even though Claude has told him before that he doesn't need the proximity. He's only felt a little out of it once, and anyway, that was his first time.

"What do you even get out of this part?" Claude asks while Danny is pulling the apparently endless length of rope out of whatever twists and loops he's made. Claude abstractly gets tying someone up, but Danny seems just as into this part, and he never acts like it's a chore.

Danny hums, and Claude feels the vibrations against his back. "I guess it's about power, but as something that's exchanged instead of taken. Why, what do you think people are supposed to get out of the winner's room?"

Claude knows what the party line is—players not getting above the gods, making sure the drive to win is always sharp—but that's not what he'd specifically been asking, and he's sure Danny understood that damn well.

"Danny," he warns, but Danny just moves around to his front and keeps undoing the harness, seemingly unperturbed. He knows that Claude doesn't believe, and okay, maybe he'd seen him after a couple of the rougher go-arounds, but Claude doesn't want to talk about the winner's room. Danny should know that by now.

"Fine," he says, but Claude isn't stupid enough to believe that's the end of it. Danny's quiet for a minute, seemingly focused on untying Claude when he asks, "Have you ever had someone just not show up?" It sounds like one of those conversations they used to have when Claude was living with him. Dangerous, in some formless way he's never been able to put his finger on.

"No, but they probably don't think I'm going to tie them to the ceiling or something," he says, trying to lighten the sudden shift in mood. Claude has never heard any of the rumors, but he can imagine them.

Danny takes the bait, like Claude had been hoping he would. "You know I don't do suspension, it's too dangerous. And anyway, it's not like I'd ever trust the structural integrity of these places." Since as long as Claude can remember Danny's been telling the story about how one time the bed in the Yotes' winner's room had broken, but he doesn't pick up the thread now.

Just when Claude thinks that's going to be the end of it, Danny says, "Do you ever think about not—"

"Don't," Claude interrupts, suddenly feeling exhausted. "For once, can you just fucking drop it, Danny?"

"I just—"

Claude's had enough. He stands up, stumbling a little when the floor is closer than he'd expected. He doesn't know when the Avs changed their bed, but he doesn't like it.

"Where are you going?" Danny asks as the rope snakes down to the floor. "You're not untied yet."

"I can do it myself," Claude tells him. "Or I can find some scissors, but I'm not doing whatever this is." Danny is his friend, but that doesn't mean Claude has to do whatever he wants, winner's room or no.

Danny reaches down and grabs an end of the rope and tugs, but it's not hard enough to move Claude, or even keep him if he really wanted to leave. "I'm done," he says. "Okay? I'm done. Come on, if you lie down I'll finish untying you, alright?"

Claude hesitates, but Danny's usually pretty good at backing off when Claude tells him to.

"I'll be lying on the rope then," he points out, even though by that point Danny had been almost done.

Danny shrugs. "I can do it," he says, and it turns out he's right.

Later, when the rope is coiled in two piles and Claude has commandeered both pillows, Danny runs a gentle hand through his hair. He has good hands, always has, and Claude takes it as the apology he thinks it's meant. When Danny strays too low and runs a finger over the bite mark Claude knows is still visible on the back of his neck, though, Claude twists around to glare.

Danny holds his hands up. "Sorry," he says, sounding frustrated. Then, "Sorry," he repeats, softer. There's something like regret in his eyes that Claude doesn't like or know how to interpret, so he turns over again and lets Danny pick up where he'd left off.

"I'm getting too old for this," Danny tells him after a couple more minutes. He laughs as he says it, but there's something serious in his tone.

"Never, old man," Claude says, and he doesn't try to move out of the way when Danny swats him lightly with a curl of rope.

 

 **+1: May 17, 2015**  

The locker room is so loud Claude can feel it in his bones. Everyone's covered in sweat and champagne, and looking across the room all Claude wants to do is lick it off Sid's body. His gaze lingers on the curve of his jaw, the swell of his biceps, and he _wants_.

"What?" Sid mouths when he catches him staring, but Claude shakes his head. He knows they'll pick this up later, away from everyone else. It feels like they're locked into this—whatever _this_ is—so much so that Claude thinks he could find Sid blindfolded.

Claude does his rounds with the guys, doesn't rush through his shower or cut out early, but there's a warm thrum of anticipation burning through him. When he finally slips out into the hall, it doesn't take Sid long to follow.

"You have something to say?" Sid asks when he's close enough. The hallway is deserted for now, but Claude's not planning on waiting around for anyone to interrupt them.

"Maybe." He props his hip against the wall and tips his head back, looks over with his best bedroom eyes so Sid can't misunderstand. "I was going to see if you wanted to foster team unity with me."

"Games are over," Sid says, but he's smiling, that dorky little grin of his. Claude doesn't know why he's attracted to him, but he very much is.

"Come on, Croz," Claude says. "What happens in Prague." He waggles his eyebrows, and catches when Sid drops his gaze to his lips.

Sid swallows, but there's nothing but confidence in his tone when he says, "Well, if it's for team unity." His voice comes out rougher than normal, and Claude will keep to himself the thrill it sends through him.

The winner's room in the arena hadn't been used for the games—the different countries had some sort of dispute about it all—but it's not far. Claude thinks maybe they shouldn't be doing this as they walk together down the hallway. They aren't tribute and victor, not if they're both on the winning team, but he doesn't care. His blood has been up since his assist on Sid's goal, and he's not stopping for a little thing like religion.

The room is unlocked when they reach it, which is a relief since Claude doesn't feel like waiting any longer than necessary. It's one of the older types that has spaces in the wall so every god can have their own idol. The recessed areas are dusty and the paint is chipped in places, but it's got a bed and that's all that matters.

"What do you want?" Sid asks, mouthing at Claude's chin as he walks him backward.

Claude wants a lot of things, but for now he'll take whatever he can get—Sid warm and solid against him, his hard-on pressed against Claude's hip, his weight when Claude hits the bed and drags him down.

"I want you to blow me." Claude tells the ceiling. He sucks in a breath when Sid bites at his neck. "You can fuck me afterward, if you want."

"I mean," Sid says, already fumbling at the waistband of Claude's sweats, "if you have to twist my arm."

Sid goes to his knees fast, which is incredibly gratifying. He presses kisses along the inside of Claude's thigh, moving toward the crease in his groin until Claude can't help but squirm.

"Condom?" Sid asks, breathing on his already leaking cock. Claude inches up the bed far enough that he can get the drawer to the bedside table open, and comes up with... nothing. He scrambles up a little further, almost kicking Sid in the process, and pulls the drawer out all the way.

It's empty. Absolutely, completely, soul-crushingly empty.

"Shit," Claude says, flopping back on the bed. He doesn't know why he'd assumed there would be condoms here, not when the room hadn't been used for the tournament, but it was just so ubiquitous. What was a winner's room without an assortment of lube, condoms, and the occasional dildo?

For one crazy moment Claude thinks about just doing this bare, but he's not actually sure he's clean. Anyway, taking that step feels like too much, too fast.

"I think my roommate is still around, and I'm assuming you don't want to wait?" Sid asks. He looks unfairly good like this, flushed and turned on between Claude's knees, and all Claude wants to do is see him wrap his lips around his dick.

"Not really, no," he tells him, mouth dry. "Not unless you've got a condom you aren't telling me about."

"We can just do it like this, then," Sid says, nipping at the inside of his knee before standing up and getting back on the bed. It's an economical move, not one that's trying to be sexy, but Claude feels his dick twitch.

"Yeah?" Claude asks as Sid settles in beside him. His eyes have hints of gold, he realizes as Sid trails a hand up his arm.

"Yeah," Sid tells him and pulls him in for a kiss. It isn't their first one, they're way past that, but something feels special about it anyway. Then Sid tugs lightly at his hair, and Claude stops thinking about anything but the heat of Sid's body and the sound he makes when Claude wraps a hand around his dick.

They jerk each other off like that, still wearing their medals because Claude is nothing if not a stereotype. It should feel juvenile, maybe, that this is all the further they're taking it—sticking to handjob and kisses, most of their clothes still on, knees bumping—but it doesn't. There's no way Claude could mistake this for anything inexperienced, not when Sid knows exactly how to touch him, and it's not like any kind sex with him is a letdown.

Claude goes off when Sid nudges a knuckle against his hole, and Sid follows soon after, stroking himself when Claude falls down on the job. Claude kisses him behind his ear in the spot he likes to make up for it.

After they've haphazardly cleaned up and their breathing is evening out, Claude starts speaking before he can think about it too hard.

"Hey, I'm sorry for hanging up on you." Sid just looks confused, and Claude can't believe he has to spell this out. "Dubinsky? A couple of months ago?"

"Oh, that," Sid says, shrugging like he doesn't have the faint white lines on his body from where Dubinsky had cut him. "It's fine."

It's a long way from fine, Claude thinks but doesn't say. "I still want to apologize, though. Let me take you out to dinner, make up for it?"

Sid looks over at him, relaxed and open, hair curling slightly at the ends. "Sure," he says, easy. "You're paying though."

"I think that was implied," Claude tells him, getting up with some regret and wiping his dick off with the sheet one more time before pulling his sweats back up. Sid puts himself together in turn and leaves some money on the bedside table to make up for the mess they'd made, and then Claude does a sweep to make sure they haven't forgotten anything and they're on their way.

They wander the streets for a while, the atmosphere changing the further away they get from the arena. It should be weird—walking together, the sex already over, nothing keeping them close—but somehow it's not.

They wind up in a hole-in-the-wall—picked because it's relatively empty and the sign has a duck on it—and get seated in a tiny corner booth. They could have brought someone who actually speaks the language, Claude thinks as he looks over the menu, but he hadn't wanted to for some reason. This is just for the two of them.

Their food takes a while to come, but Claude doesn't mind. The time passes quickly with Sid, and the dumplings they'd picked at random for an appetizer are hot and delicious. By the time their waiter comes back with their orders, Claude feels looser than he has in some time. That could have something to do with the gold medal zipped under his jacket, but he doesn't think so. That's part of it, but not everything.

Sid ends up with a stew and pasta dish with fried cheese things on the side, and Claude has some sort of meat dish he thinks might be rabbit with bread and cabbage. It's surprisingly good, considering Claude hadn't known what he was ordering, and judging by how Sid refuses to share his fried cheese, he guesses it's the same for him.

"So, what are your rookies up to?" Sid asks after they've finished inhaling the first part of their meal. "Did that one ever figure out how to use the produce section?" Claude had told him that story when Sid called after Dubinsky. He's pretty sure Sid hadn't been paying much attention, but that's okay. He can tell it again. When he reaches the part about the seedless cucumbers and gets Sid to laugh, it's this full-bellied sound that makes his fingers tingle. Claude has to hide his answering smile in his drink, but he thinks Sid catches it anyway.

They stay away from talking about hockey itself, sticking instead to mutual acquaintances and Claude's dogs and how Sid is thinking about remodeling part of his house. It's too early to start thinking about the end of the season, but summer plans comes up, as well as the best places to golf. Claude's not that good, but he bets he could give Sid a run for his money.

Near the end of the meal, Sid abruptly puts down his fork and takes a deep breath. "Is this a date?"

Claude squints at him. "Do you want it to be?" Their waiter glides past as he waits for the answer, and it feels like the entire restaurant is holding its breath. It's not until the question is out of his mouth that he realizes how invested he is in the answer.

"Yeah," Sid says decisively, tapping his fingers on the table. "I think I do."

There's a lot Claude could say to that—how they're on different teams, and what dating could do to their dynamic, and how exactly this is all going to work. He doesn't say any of that, though. He has a feeling they'll work it out somehow, and if not, he's planning on enjoying this while it lasts.

"If this is a date, that means I get some of your food," he bargains, snagging a fried cheese thing off Sid's plate without waiting for his response.

"You're such a fucking mooch," Sid says, but he's smiling as he does, and he doesn't make any attempt to steal it back.

They don't kiss, not in public, not even here where nobody seems to know who they are, but when their waiter comes back around they get a milkshake with two straws. It's blueberry, which Claude is normally ambivalent to, but with Sid's feet tangled between his own and their hands brushing on the table, Claude thinks he just might change his mind.

**Author's Note:**

> Note on consent issues: Tributes are not supposed to say no to whatever happens in the winner's room, which makes consent inherently dubious. As well, in the "April 8, 2012" section Claude goes as tribute for an OC and uses a spotter who is supposed to step in if things go too far. The spotter doesn't. While Claude never says no, he is scared and in pain and wants what is happening to him to stop. The spotter eventually stops the other player because he tries to penetrate Claude without a condom, and Claude views the encounter as a violation. /end note on consent issues
> 
> Come hang out with me on [tumblr!](https://enter-remiges.tumblr.com/)


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